As these outdoor Christmas light bulbs fall off the string (due to a crappy design and/or manufacture) during the course of the winter, they collect at the base of the house until an unseasonably nice day in February when somebody (me) picks them up off the ground, puts them in a plastic bucket, and takes this picture of them. They are kind of pretty aren't they? I hope they can be reassembled for use next year. I just like the way these look, the symbolism is too painful to explore. They are pretty, and that will have to be enough for me. I am looking forward to Spring. Nothing is ever enough. Well, that's a bit dramatic, sometimes a bucket of fallen holiday lightbulbs is not a metaphor for life, or for religion, or for the pancake breakfast great-grandpapa never got to eat.
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